Warnings: Slight nsfw, mentions of war, language, smoking,
DISCLAIMER!! This story is based on the characters portrayed by HBO and their actors; it is not meant to represent the real men behind the stories told in Band of Brothers.
Some memories never leave the mind—from the sweet, gentle embrace of a loved one to the tight feeling of war grazing your neck in the form of a sharp bullet. They stayed; they lingered through the cracks and ridges of your brain and stayed buried deep like June beetles in hibernation. Even in the arms of a lover, the memory was always watching like a shadow, waiting for you to acknowledge it.
San Francisco was mostly silent; other than the clattering of cars from the street below your apartment and the murmur of city life, it was peaceful. Much colder than certain places in California you had looked at, but Joe liked the apartment, and it was nowhere near as cold as Bastogne’s gripping temperature was.
The darkened sky and barely starry ceiling lay just outside the window. Your head pressed against the familiar feeling of Joe’s bare chest. Acting as a comforting contrast to the cold air brushing against your skin through the open window. A cigarette lay between his fingers, adorned by the gold wedding band that shimmered in the moonlight. Smoke drifted out of his mouth, conjuring into the vast world that lay just outside the glass windows of your small apartment.
It was nights like these you both preferred to remember. Your eyes flickered to him, messy hair and a gentle calm that settled over his shoulders. The moonlight complimented him like an artist painting their lover. It masked him in a way that made it seem almost impossible; he wasn’t ripped from a statue or some type of painting. You could’ve gotten lost in his presence if it weren’t for the gentle circles his thumb pressed into your shoulder.
“Darling,” you called out in a soft mutter, your voice seemingly throwing him deep out of thought.
“Yes?” he answered, not breaking away from his gaze out the window and offering a puff of his cigarette to you.
When you shook your head, he let himself have another drag, letting the smoke filter out through the window instead of getting it onto you.
“You know what I’d like?”
His eyes glanced in your direction; he could’ve framed the sight on his goddamn wall. The gentle caress of your stare graced his vision, and quickly, he became weak.
“What?”
“A great big chocolate ice cream soda”
When the words left your mouth you caught the sides of Joe’s lips quirking up into a smile. Glancing out the window before replying.
“Huh, well, I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” He let out another puff of smoke from the cigarette sitting idly in his hold. “The lights just went out in the drugstore across the street.”
“Closing? What time is it?” you inquired.
Taking a sideways glance at the clock, he squinted to read the thin black numbers etched onto the machine.
“Well, it’s after one thirty, baby.”
“One thirty?” You parroted.
“One thirty,” he added, pressing out the bud into the ashtray he had set on the windowsill.
His now free hand moved to interlock with yours, his finger dragging over the wedding band on your ring finger. He loved that thing to death—because to him it was a reminder that he was yours. That you had said yes to him out of all people. That you were still there despite the disapproval from your family because you loved him.
You got married in the fall, after he came home from the war. Scarred and almost a new person, you still held his hand like he was untouched. Like he was too pure for the world that had thrust him into horrors that still watched him at night.
As much as he had changed, to you he had stayed the exact same as when he’d left. You loved him all the same; you loved him in a way he didn’t ever deserve. As much as he believes, you make it feel so good to be selfish.
With a soft grunt he pushed himself up, hands still interlocked as his lips pressed against the marks they had left along your neck. A hum of satisfaction left his mouth as your free hand tangled through his dark hair.
“One more?” He asked with an almost giddy grin.
You leaned your head back against the soft pillows, letting out a contented sigh as his lips worked their way around your skin.
“One more,” you replied.
With the soft agreement, his hand gently grasped at the plush below your thigh. Your leg hooked around his back as Joe’s lips moved away from your neck to capture your lips in a comforting embrace. On nights like these he liked to take his time, to enjoy the way the night lingered around you both and held you together. Your name fell from his lips like a prayer, something that seemed sacred. The whole time he made sure your hand stayed in his, thumb dragging over the skin as his head lay against the crook of your neck.
He could stay here forever, worshipping you like you deserve. Pleasing you with whatever you wanted—kisses, sex, whatever that chocolate thing was you wanted. He’d give it to you just so you’d show him that smile he’d die for.
The gentle early morning sun drew in from the open window. Your arm was draped over his chest as he stirred awake. He stopped squirming once he noticed the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. Lying comfortably against the mattress, he listened to the early morning ambiance. The gentle chirp of wind chimes swaying in the wind, birds singing just outside the window. It was only two years ago he was listening to the sound of kraut artillery; now he was listening to fucking wind chimes and his wife’s soft snores.
Joe had definitely kept you up too late for a work night. He’ll probably also be exhausted once he goes in, but he’d take thousands of sleepless nights if it meant being yours.
Your eyes slowly fluttered awake, a groan escaping your lips while you directed your face into his chest, attempting to avoid the harsh light from bullying your senses.
He pushed your hair away from your face, his calloused hands holding the same care as one would hold a delicate statue.
“Daring?” He called out, his voice deep and raspy. “Would you still like that ice cream scoop?”
For a moment, you hadn’t realized what he was on about. It took you a moment to reply before realizing he had taken that small comment in the dead of night and locked it into memory.
“Well. . .” You turned your head to watch him in the new morning light. “Yes, why?”
“I dunno, the drugstore should be open by now.” He replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I could get you some before work.”
A/N: I was listening to this song and had inspiration :D
MAIN MASTERLIST | JOSEPH LIEBGOTT MASTERLIST
zayne who makes out with you to lull you to sleep.
he knows it’s not easy for you to fall asleep. he’s woken up to you wide awake at 3am, scrolling on your phone that’s way too close to your face. he’s tried every remedy out there—warm milk before bed, tea before bed, no gadgets before bed, reading before bed—yet not a single one has been effective. it always ends with you staying up until it’s time for him to wake up.
only one thing ever worked, though. kissing you until you pass out.
as soon as you finish your nighttime routine, zayne is already ushering you to his lap. he sets his book down on the bedside table, slips his glasses off, and lets his hands run up and down your sides in slow, soothing motions. in the summer, he even uses his evol, a gentle coolness settling over your skin just enough to make you relax.
once you’re on top of him, it starts with a kiss to your cheek. then another along your jaw, before he drags his lips down your neck. after that, he comes back up to meet your mouth, slotting his lips with yours. he doesn’t rush it. doesn’t deepen it more than necessary. just steady, unhurried kisses meant to calm your breathing rather than steal it away.
without breaking contact, he eases you down onto the bed, movements careful and practiced. one hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing softly against your skin while the other keeps you close. his kisses grow slower, softer, lingering just a second longer each time.
he murmurs quietly inbetween—nothing dramatic, just low reassurances, reminders that he’s here, you’re safe, that you don’t have to think about anything else. eventually, he turns the two of you onto your sides, pulling you flush against his chest.
his hand slips under your sleep shirt, meticulous fingertips tracing circles along your back. his nails scratch lightly, rhythmically, exactly the way he knows you like. your breathing eventually evens out without you realizing it, body melting into his.
there’s a small smile on his lips when he feels you go slack against him.
and as your eyes finally flutter closed, zayne doesn’t stop right away. he presses one last kiss to your lips, thumb brushing beneath your eye as if to make sure you’re really asleep. only then does he still, arm tightening around you just slightly.
you fall asleep to the sound of his steady breathing and the cool comfort of his presence—while zayne stays awake a little longer, making sure you don’t wake again.
was mourning Family Video Steve, so wrote a little blurb about radio station Steve <3 no spoilers because i know nothing about season 5 spoilers.
Steve’s never done quiet well, but he’s especially inept at night. You wince when his hip smacks the dresser, the wooden thud followed by a muttered ow as he clumsily shucks off his jeans. He rummages through the drawer where his forgotten clothes have created their own little ecosystem, and the whole thing rattles like it’s protesting his intrusion.
You let out a soft oof as he finally climbs into bed in his reclaimed sweatpants, almost crushing you as he half hovers above you, luckily you don’t mind the weight so much. He smells like cold night air and lemon sours.
He’s either unaware of his inelegant descent into your bed or he doesn’t particularly care. Your fingers reach to twist into his hair, unable to stay sore at him for long, “You catch the show?” He hums, his nose sliding along your neck as he hovers above you.
“Parts, you know I heard the host’s real handsome,” You mumble back, fingers inching under his shirt collar.
He grins, but it quickly sours as you finish your joke with, “think you could snag me her number?”
He awards you an eye roll with an exaggerated scoff, feigning outrage, “I miss when you were funny,” He laments, cold fingers sneaking under your jumper to misappropriate your warmth.
You laugh, shifting up to press him closer, you’re sure you’re almost one being as you tangle your arms around his neck. “Oh, you missed me. That's really embarrassing for you, Babe.”
You can’t see his face, but you feel the smile against your cheek, warm and smug.
He nudges your jaw until you tilt for him, nose brushing yours as he slots closer. “You know that scene in Aliens?” he murmurs. “The part where the thing just… latches onto that guy’s face? That’s totally you. Total facehugger.”
You open your mouth to huff at him, but he catches it, pressing a series of soft slow kisses against your lips, crushing you into the mattress as he swallows whatever protest you were mustering.
You’ve forgotten to be vexed by the time he wakes in the morning. It’s a mess of sheets and tangled limbs as you endeavour onto his lap.
He blinks up at you, squinting like you’re too bright to look at directly. “You know I gotta go, pretty girl,” he soothes, voice still coated in sleep. His fingers drift into your hair, slow and automatic, massaging your scalp in that way that turns you to warm putty. “C’mon, Beautiful, I got responsibilities. You gotta let me up.”
You press your palm against his forehead, a frown of mock concern creasing your features, “Oh no,” you whisper, “you’re burning up.”
He snorts, but you shush him with a stern shake of your head.
“Seems pretty serious,” you continue, prodding him scientifically, “you better stay here.”
Steve laughs, the sound rough and warm in his chest. “Serious, huh? You think I’ll live?”
“Mm.” You tilt your head, continuing your very serious diagnosis. “Up in the air. Very touch and go. You better stay for observation until further notice.”
He grins, his hands sliding to your hips as if they belong there. “Observation,” he echoes, amused.
“Absolutely.” You nod solemnly. “Way too sick to queue Foreigner.”
“Well if that’s what the doctor says…” He grins, pressing a chaste kiss against your lips, releasing a contented sigh into your mouth.
I am never escaping the dad trope lol, and I don't want to! This got angsty fast, though, as it's an idea I've been toying around with for the better part of years now and you've given me the chance to get it out there. I present to you:
𝐃𝐚𝐝ⵑ𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐌𝐨𝐦ⵑ𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫,
tw: postpartum depression. reader is not happy and experiencing mom guilt.
Summary: Steve Harrington, first time father of one, muses about you, the mother of his child.
“I know, I know…” Steve cooed, foot frantically tapping against the kitchen tile while he waited for hot water to heat the liquid contained in the bottle, floating in the pot.
He was the poster boy for exhaustion, one shoulder of his shirt covered in spit up, the other with a spit up rag slung over it. Also, covered in spit up. His sweats were no better, stained with projectile spit up, her pee because surprise, surprise, female babies can also have little pee streams, and whatever he was trying to eat before she’d start crying and he fumbled his meal to get to her.
The baby, tucked into a bassinet Steve was dragging around the house at that point, was just a few weeks old, and furious. Little limbs wiggling and shaking, face scrunched up as she cried. Agatha was pissed and obviously didn’t give a crap what he was saying and Steve let out a heavy sigh, practically feeling the frustration she was experiencing, as a result of picking up on his own emotions. Joyce Byers had told him babies had a way of doing that. Little bundles of empathy, yet to be marred by the world.
Three weeks out of the hospital, and already she was experiencing a multitude of emotions he could barely stand. Largely, the concern and loneliness.
Agatha’s screams continued to echo, the bottle continued to warm on the stove, and Steve turned his head towards the stairs. Melancholy weighed heavy on his chest as he thought of you. You probably hadn’t moved since he’d last checked on you a few minutes ago, curled up on the window nook and staring blankly out of it.
You didn’t talk to him a whole lot. Didn’t do much, either. Steve would like to say he noticed the first change when he’d brought the two of you back home, but he’d noticed it before then. Noticed in that delivery room.
You’d been unsure of being a mother when you found out you were pregnant, but a family had been something the two of you always talked about. To you, specifically, it seemed to be something that would always be in the future, never something that would be happening right now. The joy soon found you, and you were ecstatic to be welcoming your baby. Hand painted so many of the designs in her nursery, built up an impressive library and wardrobe for her, discussed your yearning for the days where you’d get to sit out in the yard with her in your arms, read to her, nurse her. You wanted it.
But Steve had seen the look in your eyes when the nurse had put your baby girl’s trembling body in your arms. Or rather, he’d seen what was missing from them.
It was like your body was in the room, but you weren’t. You didn’t want to be there. Didn’t want to hold her.
You weren’t very chatty after the birth, quiet, reserved and pleasant. Too busy catching up on what you hadn’t been able to eat while pregnant, to pay attention to the baby girl everyone was cooing over and you seemed vaguely uncomfortable anytime one of your friends diverted their attention away to check on you.
It should have been the first sign for Steve to let the doctor know but he wrote it off as you being tired. Because you were. Tired.
When he brought you home, he’d thought you’d be much better. Surrounded by your things, and memories, and nothing but reminders of his love for you. You’d be better.
And then you weren’t. You went about your normal routine, chores, errands, all without so much as a smile on your face. No frown, either, just…nothing.
It was when Steve couldn’t deny how desperate you were to not pick up the baby, to not have to hold her, that he had to accept what was happening.
A diagnosis was given, one that was hard for you to deal with because you’d been difficult when it came to discussing your feelings, let alone doing so with a doctor.
“Honey, it’s not a big deal! Your hormones have changed and you-you read the same baby books as me─” Of course, he’d said the wrong thing.
“ ‘Not a big deal’?” Your eyes were shiny and blazing, “Not a big deal? You’re asking me to go to a doctor. Like something’s wrong with me and it’s not a big deal to you? Do you think I’m crazy? What—just because I’m not happy as fuck to change her diapers?”
Steve’s stomach hurt, twisting at both his pain and yours.
“It’s not the diapers, honey. It’s not…” He paused, throat swallowing around a heavy emotion, “You’re not crazy. You’re not.”
“I’m not.” You confirmed, ready to stomp back upstairs to the master bedroom and pretend this never happened when he spoke softly.
“You just won’t pick her up after.”
You hesitated on the first step, turning to face him while you stared at the ground, almost mortified that he’d said what you’d intentionally been doing out loud; changing her diapers because she smelled or wouldn’t. stop. crying. and then immediately announcing to Steve that she was ready so he could grab her. And if he noticed that, well…he’d also noticed how frequently you disappeared to pump. Always handing him a bottle when one was needed before fluttering off to some other part of the house or outside. Not around. The last time you’d even nursed Agatha was in the hospital. It’d be fine if you didn’t want to, you just had to tell him. You both knew breastfeeding wasn’t for everyone. That led him to believe it was something more. And whenever you had to put her to sleep because Steve for some reason couldn’t, you’d always get this far out look on your face, like you were disassociating. Would rather be anywhere else.
You weren’t you and what scared Steve most was how you were intentionally trying to deceive him into thinking you were fine. Because it meant you were trying to convince yourself, too. Holding it all in.
You had swallowed hard, cleared your throat and attempted a shrug, “So? I clean her poop and you take the next shift. Thought that was what we were doing.”
Steve knew he’d get nowhere with you if you continued to shy away from what he was saying. He knew it would hurt you, but he had to be direct if he wanted to get you help.
“Do you like holding her?” You were put on the spot, he knew he’d finally gotten through. You fidgeted, a hand reaching up to massage the back of your neck, something Steve always did to comfort and soothe you.
“Uhm—I,”
“Do you want to hold her?”
The tears came before you could stop them and you knew he knew. Your face crumpled. In a flash, Steve had you in his arms while you cried into his chest.
”I don’t know what’s wrong with me, she’s perfect but she doesn’t feel like she’s mine. And she hasn’t done anything wrong and I just don’t─”
Steve hushed you, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead as he held you tight, “It’ll be okay, honey. It will. I promise.”
The first few doctors were dismissive of you and your feelings and Steve had let them, their staff, and everyone in the waiting area know how little he cared for their conduct. Then came a saint. This doctor had said it was Postpartum Depression.
A scarily common thing for those who give birth, and widely undiagnosed because either women didn’t seek treatment for various reasons and aspects in their life, or they weren’t taken seriously when reaching out for help.
Steve had hoped knowing it wasn’t your fault, knowing it wasn’t anyone’s fault, would help you but you’d been even more quiet since. Had even chosen the window nook as your new roost.
He was lucky he had a more than an average amount of time saved up at work to stay home. Steve had imagined it would be used as family bonding time, time he’d get to spend with both his girls, and now he’s trying to make sure both of his girls may someday get the chance to bond.
Steve was snapped out of his head when some hot water splashed on his hand and he hissed, cursing under his breath as he quickly turned the burner off. The water was boiling, there was no way he’d be able to give that milk to Aggie. Shit, how could he get so fucking in his head and distracted—
The baby.
Steve immediately registered that the house was quiet, his head darted in the direction of the bassinet and his heart dropped when he saw it was empty.
HIS BABY!
“Aggie?” He called out like a dumbass as if his three week old baby would respond.
The stove, the pot, and the bottle were abandoned as he frantically searched the house for her, literally running down the hall. The front door was locked, so was the back door so no one had broken in.
And then a thought occurred to him. One that filled him with far too much hope. His frantic steps became quiet, afraid to make so much as a creak when he made his way upstairs and down the hall.
With bated breath, he pushed the bedroom door open.
You were still in on the nook, just as he suspected. The top windows were open, allowing a sweet breeze into your bedroom, curtains billowing gently on either side of you. Rays of sun framed you, a light blanket over your lap. A blanket that housed your daughter. Steve could see her little fist, clenching and unclenching even with her little mittens on—she liked to scratch her face and then get mad about it—as she nursed. You kept her close, thumb stroking over the soft, exposed delicate skin of Agatha’s arm while you read, occasionally mouthing a few words.
Steve stood almost paralyzed, in complete astonishment as he watched the two of you.
At some point, Aggie began making an intense grunting noise and you looked away from your book, down at her in concern as she unlatched herself from you.
“Oh, what’s going on─” Aggie let out a large and long toot and her grunting immediately stopped before she began to root around for your nipple again. You let out a loud laugh, body shaking with it as you assisted her with latching. “Such a silly girl. Stinky, too.”
Steve almost joined you, almost walked in that room, to take part in it. He didn’t. Legs twitched to move forward, but he just smiled, amused with Aggie and happy to see you smile. Steve would just linger in the doorway for now, satisfied with letting his girls bond.
I just desperately need to annoy Steve so much while he’s trying to do something, and be like so insanely irritating that anyone normal would get pissed off but he’s just the sweetest ever. Even though I’m harassing him every three seconds for another kiss or a hug. I love him so much
like yeah I’d just like to be his weird freak girlfriend who annoys him all the time…please
steve harrington x fem!reader, 0.6k words
“Steve.”
You poke Steve’s shoulder for the third time in the last two minutes. Steve sighs lovingly (if that’s even possible) from underneath the counter where he’s sorting video cases.
“What, baby?”
“I’m bored.”
Steve grunts, his shoulders tensing a bit. You can tell he’s starting to get annoyed but his tone is sweet as honey and patient as ever when he says, “I know. You’ve only told me ten times.”
You bite back a smile. “Can we go get milkshakes?”
“I’m working, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart, you think dizzily. The way he says it makes you feel giddy. You swing your legs where they’re dangling over the counter.
“There’s no one in here,” you reason. There hasn’t been all day. “It’s a ghost town. And Robin can watch the shop while we’re gone. Right, Robin?”
“Not a good idea!” Robin calls from the back room, the door half open and light spilling out on the carpet. “The place will be in flames within five minutes.”
You giggle while Steve mumbles something that sounds like an agreement. Silence falls again. You twist to look out the big glass windows. Out in the parking lot, there’s not a single sign of life to be seen.
“Steve,” you say again, this time prodding him in the bicep with the toe of your sneaker.
Steve sighs again. You didn’t realise it was humanly possible to make a sigh sound so sweet, so patient, but he makes it work somehow. He finishes what he’s doing and straightens up with a groan, rolling his shoulders as he comes face to face with you.
“What, honey?” He looks you in the eye, and you’re struck by how handsome he is. He pushes his hair back with one hand and you watch his bicep unabashedly. “Let me guess, you’re bored?”
You shake your head. You were, but now you’ve got a better idea. “No. I want a kiss.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “A kiss.”
You nod. “Please?”
Steve just looks at you for a moment. You think he’s deciding whether to give you what you want or not, given the fact that you’ve been pestering him all morning. But both of you know he’s never been one to deny you what you want.
He shrugs. “M’kay. Whatever you want, babe.”
You smile, pleased, and tilt your chin up for a kiss. Steve doesn’t let you wait. He takes your chin in his hand and gently angles you so he can press his mouth to yours. He kisses you softly, lips warm and patient. You’re greedier, curling your fingers into his polo and taking your time tasting the flavour of him. When he pulls away he’s laughing.
“What’s so funny?” You ask primly.
He pokes you in the side, grinning lopsidedly. “You’re greedy. Don’t you know that sort of behaviour is inappropriate for the work place?”
You huff. “Stop being so handsome then.”
Steve gives you a suave sort of grin. But you don’t miss the blush creeping up from under his collar. “No can do, sweetheart,” he says.
He disappears beneath the counter again for a few seconds, then reemerges with a cardboard box in his arms.
“Wanna help me shelve the new stock?” He asks. “If we do it fast enough, we’ll have time to go get milkshakes on my break. You still want milkshakes, right?”
You nod and slide off the counter, pleased and a bit lovestruck. You decide to quit annoying him for the time being. You love him a bit too much right now to be anything but sweet to him.
a/n. ignore any spelling mistakes. my brain is fried today <33
He’s so incredibly sweet and gentle, and whenever he’s around you, his eyes get a little softer and his drawl becomes slower. He listens intently when you talk, no matter what you're saying, his eyes locked on your face, head tilted slightly. You could be telling a story or complaining about something tiny, and he’d always listen.
He’s so the type to tuck your hair back mid-conversation if it falls in your face or to kiss you on the head when you’re doing something mundane around the house. Just little domestic things that are so much sweeter than they seem
He’s constantly singing or humming to himself, and more often than not, you’ll catch him humming little melodies while he’s doing something. You never bring it up or comment on it, afraid he’ll stop if you do, but you’ll always stop and listen.
Mornings with him are nothing short of lazy, all soft sweaters, sleepy smiles, and lazy conversation. He’ll get up to make you coffee and breakfast before slipping back into bed with you so you can both enjoy a few moments of peace before facing the chaos of his career.
Date nights tend to consist of watching movies—sometimes it’s movie marathons, other times it’s just crappy films with no true plot. Either way, it's your guys’ thing and is almost always followed up with long discussions about actors and actresses as the credits roll.
If you fall asleep on his shoulder mid-movie, he won't wake you up. He’ll simply pull you close and continue watching like it’s nothing before carrying you off to bed.
Austin is incredibly calm and composed most of the time, maintaining a polite front, but if someone were to overstep the line, he’s got no problem stepping up for you. He’ll set things straight, his tone firm, and it becomes clear very quickly who not to mess with.
He’s always checking on you, especially if you’re both at a big event, just to make sure you’re not overwhelmed. “You okay, baby?” with a hand resting on your lower back.
He won’t ever post your relationship tones online, maybe the odd photo here or there, and he never rants about you endlessly in interviews. You’re a part of his private life, and he likes to keep it that way. However, you are his phone wallpaper, and he’s always taking little candid shots of you without you realising.
Some nights, the two of you will stay up until the early hours of the morning, talking about anything and everything. Sometimes the conversations get deep; sometimes they’re about as irrelevant as any conversation can be. He just loves hearing you talk.
During arguments, he tries to remain patient, never raising his voice at you. Some arguments are quiet and measured but just as emotional and tense. If you were to hit a nerve, he’ll turn serious quickly, and his words cut just as deep as they would if he were to scream.
He won’t ever explode during at; he'll simply just walk away to give you both air, only coming back once the tension has eased and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to implode at any given moment.
Makeups are incredibly soft and honest. He’s a firm believer of not going to bed angry, and any disagreement will be sorted a few hours after, at most.
He’ll hold your face in his hands, mumbling apologies and peppering your skin with feather-light kisses.
When it comes to PDA, he tries to keep things low-key, especially in public with paparazzi swarming about like flies. Hands brushing, holding you by the waist, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.
One of his favourite things to do is rest his hand on the back of your neck. It’s both a grounding and protective thing, a way to reassure himself that he knows where you are.
He tends to kiss you regardless of whether there are cameras around or not; little pecks to the forehead, hands, and cheeks. He doesn’t care. It isn’t about showing off; it's about making sure you know he loves you.
imagine benny hurtin' your feelings :( maybe he says somethin' he shouldn't have n'now you've got these big fat tears rollin' down your cheeks and benny feels awful. he looks at you, sees your lower lip wobblin' and your chest heavin' with these breathy lil sobs and he wants to kick his own fucking ass. "baby girl, m-m'real sorry." but you won't even look at him :( you've got your arms crossed n'eyes locked on the ground and even when benny's fingers trail along your arm to take your wrist you stand still as a statue. "c'mon, doll. really am sorry. c'mere." but it's not that easy. you pull away from him stubborn as can be and now face the other direction just snifflin' and rubbin' your eyes and his shoulders drop because what's he gotta do? get on his knees?
:( he does :(
"really am so sorry, pretty. shouldn't said what i did." he clasps his ringed fingers over his forearm, circlin' your hips in his embrace. his cheek presses soundly right above your belly button n'through the fabric of your blouse you can feel his lashes fluttering like butterflies. "didn't mean it." and as he murmurs apologies and runs his hands down your thighs you fight the urge to card your fingers through his hair :( to tell 'em it's okay :( to make him look at you so you can give him a kiss :( in truth, you like the way he's begging :( you like knowing that the same man on his knees askin' for your forgiveness is also the one who runs from the cops n'doesn't listen to anyone. "will you forgive me?" he looks up at you, blue eyes twinkling, frown prominent. you're still crying :( lips are still parted as you blink wetly at him :( "please, baby." his hands ruck the material of your shirt up just so he can feel the warmth of your tummy on his lips - just so he can mouth at the button of your jeans "how can i make it up to you?"
whatever you do, do not think of all of the pretty pet names benny would call you!!! don't do it!!! because he'd have so many :'(
like, yeah, he knows your name, loves your name, it tickles his tongue but it feels so natural to call you things like baby. you are his baby. when he's got your chin in his grasp and smells like motor oil and tobacco and those silver rings are cold and biting as they press against your jaw it just tumbles out. "m'sweet baby." he rasps, beard tickling your lips as he brings you closer closer until you meet in a plushy union.
"c'mon darlin," he groans, tipping his head back. "don' make me do this." you've got his hand, tugging earnestly as the latest Elvis song croons through the busted club speakers. you beg, lengthening the word please out until it's made primarily of vowels. "dance with me, benny." you're all doe eyes and syrupy smiles and that's when the boys start up: "yeah! dance with her benny!" "c'mon, benny boy! dance with your girl." he scowls at them, flipping the bird and his half-lit cigarette at corky before rising and following you onto the floor.
"think you're an angel," benny confesses one night. he's hovering over you, hands on either side of your face, knees sinking into the worn comforter. "think you were sent down from heaven jus' for me. to save me." he breathes, trailing his index finger down the length of your nose. you've never seen him like this, so vulnerable that tears rim his baby blues. you're in awe. he's so beautiful; white ribbed tank top stuck to his chest from sweat, levis straining over his thighs. "always thought i'd have to die and somehow make it into heaven to see someone like you. be loved by someone like you." he smiles and shakes his head. "my pretty angel."
you're honey over breakfast in his trailer.
you're pretty one whenever you twirl and show off your new dress.
Your and Benny’s little girl gets injured playing on a bike and must go to the hospital. Benny doesn’t handle it well.
Warnings/Notes: mention of broken bones, cursing, angry but sweet dad Benny, protectiveness, typos, and I think that’s it.
Part of the Come Back Knockin’ universe. Takes place after Come Back Together and Together and More, but you don't have to read these beforehand to understand this fic.
Words: 1250
Benny Cross Masterlist
Benny’s going to lose his damn mind—that’s all you can think as you stand beside Wahoo in the hospital lobby, the both of you keeping sharp eyes out the wall-length windows to spot your husband. Facing him will be no easy feat and you need all the time you can get to prepare yourselves before he stomps through those doors.
“Wahoo, I don't know about this. You really better go back to the meeting,” you encourage him, as you’ve done at least ten times in the last fifteen minutes.
“Nah, I gotta stay and apologize to ‘im,” he replies. “But you shouldn’t have to wait here with me. You should go be with your girl.”
Your eyes scan the visible area from the benches in the flowered courtyard to the emergency sign attached to the building’s exterior brick before darting to the looped driveway reserved for ambulances. He’s nowhere in sight. But he will be soon enough. You called him—you peek at your watch—exactly twelve minutes and forty-three seconds ago. The shop is nineteen minutes away from the hospital and there’s no way he’s not speeding.
“If I go, who is going to stop Benny from killing you?” you say, your heart hammering in your chest.
You love your husband, but the man has a temper that can flare as easily as a swift strike of a match. He has started many short-lived fights, always requiring some patching up before the excitement finally settles down, but if Benny is given time to simmer, he can explode with an unrivaled rage.
Wahoo chuckles awkwardly, turning his head to look at you.
“You got a point there, sweetheart,” he says. Then he goes silent amongst the background chattering of anxious families and ringing phone lines at the front desk.
You glance his way just in time to see the harsh bob of his Adam’s apple.
“I won’t let him,” you promise. “You know…kill you.”
“Not sure you’re gonna be able to stop ‘im. You and the kid are the most important things in his world, and one of yous got hurt on my watch.”
A wince pinches your face at the memory and you’re so busy worrying about how the events of the next few minutes are going to unfold that you miss Benny’s entrance entirely.
“What the fuck!” Benny shouts. It echoes throughout the room, making every head swivel, every conversation cease.
As he storms closer, you step between him and Wahoo, your hands planting firmly on his chest. Murder is in his glare and though he could easily barrel through the barrier in his path, that would involve shoving you aside, and regardless of the circumstances, he would never do that.
Benny’s arm raises over your shoulder, finger pointed like a dagger toward his friend—well, enemy, at the moment. “What the hell you doin’ lettin’ my four-year-old on your fuckin’ bike!”
He tries to side-step you but you’re watching his feet, catching his movements before he can finish making them.
“I’m real sorry, Benny,” Wahoo says meekly.
“Sorry? You’re sorry!” His tone is darker, fists clenching, anger overflowing and spilling onto the tiled floor. Without glancing at you, in a much softer—but still threatening—voice, he says, “Baby, move.”
You look up at him. Your hands slide from his chest to cup his cheeks in a failed effort to trap his attention. “Benny, it was an accident, ok? Alright? She was just playing pretend like she does with you and she wiggled out of his grasp and landed wrong,” you tell him.
“I don't fuckin’ care if it was an accident.”
He’s so revved up, so locked in on his target, that your stomach twists for Wahoo. He’s been such a kind man and he’s so good with your daughter that he’s told you once or twice he wishes he could have one of his own someday.
When Lucy fell, it took all of two seconds for his visibly consuming guilt to settle in. He’d immediately picked her up, buckled her into your car, and followed you straight to the hospital where he has stressed over her injured state from the moment of arrival. He doesn’t deserve the abuse from Benny as if he was negligent. Benny, a man who regularly demonstrates little of his own self-preservation skills, but happens to go feral when his child so much as skins her knee.
“Move.”
“Benny, please,” you say. “Honey, look at me.”
If you can get his eyes on you then he’ll be stuck to you like glue. He’ll calm down. The huffing and puffing of his chest will slow.
And to your relief, when you stand up on your toes to invade his line of sight that is exactly what happens. The vengeance drains out of his face, replaced by a gentleness that only ever reveals itself to you and your shared child.
“She’s fine,” you say. “She cried until the doctor gave her a sucker and now I’m not sure she even cares about her arm.”
Benny’s mouth dips into a frown. His brow pinches, then his teeth bite down hard on his bottom lip. “She got hurt,” he says, and your heart breaks for him.
You sigh. “I know.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to stop it even if you were. It happened in a split-second,” you tell him. “You’re here now; that’s what matters. And wouldn’t you rather see her than argue?”
Benny’s exhale is a sharp release of air that subdues the remnants of his temper. “Where is she?”
You point to the double doors off to the side of the lobby. “Through there,” you say.
Benny swallows, nods, and takes your hand. But when he looks up, the glare resurfaces. “You're not gettin’ off,” he tells Wahoo. “I’ll deal with you later.”
As Benny pulls you along in the direction of your daughter, you quickly whisper to your friend, “I'll take care of it, but you ought to go.”
Wahoo’s smile is weak, never reaching his eyes, and his hands slip into his jeans pockets before he turns on his heel for the exit.
---
“Daddy!”
Lucy hops up from the floor where a few toys are scattered about from playing with the nurse in your absence.
Benny plasters on a smile that barely conceals his agitation as he scoops her up in his arms. “You doin’ alright, nugget?”
“Mhmm,” Lucy hums, chipper as ever. “I finished my sucker. It tasted like grape.” She lifts her arm and Benny’s head jerks back to avoid a collision with his nose. “You like my cast?”
You watch Benny struggle to come up with a positive reply, considering that within said cast is his little baby’s broken arm. “Y-Yea, Lu. It’s…It’s real great.”
“It’s blue!”
“I see that.”
The nurse chuckles as she rises from the floor and dusts invisible specks of dirt from her pristinely white uniform. “You’ve got yourself a lovely little girl,” she praises, tilting her head affectionately as he takes in the image of Lucy tucking her head into the crook of Benny’s neck. “The doctor says we’ll need to see you back here in six weeks.”
“Thank you.”
She starts toward the door but pauses as she passes your daughter. “Goodbye, miss Lucy,” she says, her smile wide.
“Bye, miss nurse!” With her good hand, Lucy gives an animated wave that the nurse returns as she closes the door behind her.
Benny releases the sigh you’re pretty sure he’s been holding in since you called him. He cups the side of Lucy's head as if he could cradle her closer than she already is.
“You're not gonna be sittin’ up on any bikes for a real long while,” he says.
Lucy’s head shoots up, eyes widening in panic. “Nooo!” she whines. “You can't stop me!”
“You wanna bet?”
“Yes!” she snaps back. “I…I'll do it when you aren't lookin'!”
Benny scoffs. "I'm not lettin' you out of my sight."
"I'll be real sneaky!"
The air of rebelliousness is all too familiar and it makes you snicker. Because despite the exhaustion of the day, despite the tears and the shouting and the drama that you hope will not reemerge later, all you can think as the bantering unfolds before you is that that little girl is definitely Benny Cross’s daughter.
Benny Cross Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List
He’s home. And as thrilled as you are to see his bike parked in front of the house before midnight on a weekday, you’re just as confused. Excluding weekends, when riding during the day frees up Benny’s nights to give to you, it’s a rarity to see him between the dark hours of eight and three; a pattern so consistent that it’s almost silly to expect anything different.
You knew that when you met Benny. You knew exactly what you were getting into, and because of that, you don’t fault him for staying out late. Riding is important to Benny, it makes up a chunk of his soul, and because the other guys in the club—with their families and day jobs and grown-up responsibilities—can typically only meet after their kids are passed out from a bedtime story and their wives have finished screaming at them for daring to leave the house at such an ungodly hour, you let him be free to enjoy time with the club when he can.
If that time is given to you instead, you’re happy to have him for an entire night. However, now, as you enter through the front door, it’s not what you expected. The house is a pit of darkness; could be abandoned if you didn’t know the space you were stepping into.
“Benny?” you call, flicking on the nearest light. You toss your handbag onto the entryway table and make your way to the kitchen to check the fridge. If he’s already asleep, you hope he at least got to the leftovers you put away for him that he usually scarfs down before he comes to bed.
Turning the corner, you gasp, nearly jumping out of your skin at the shadowed figure sitting at the breakfast table. Your hand flies to your thumping heart.
“Jesus, honey, you scared me,” you breathe out. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
A ray of moonlight streams through the window, surrounding your boyfriend and emphasizing his silhouette. He leans back in the chair and brings a bottle to his lips.
“Have you been drinking? How much? God, please tell me you didn’t ride the bike drunk,” you say. He doesn’t answer.
You sigh and move across the room with the intent to pull the silver chain of the small lamp on your counter—it’s a soft glow that won’t assault his eyes or yours after lingering in pitch black—but a strong hand wraps around your wrist as you pass by.
“Benny, wha–”
Your eyes adjust. You can finally make out his features as he looks up at you, and they’re as dark as the space you occupy. “You messin' around on me?” he asks.
If your eyebrows could lift above your forehead they would. If your jaw could unhinge itself, it’d be on the floor. “What?”
Benny shoots up, chair skidding back on the tile with an awful scraping sound. “Are you fuckin’ someone?” he spits out, leaning into you.
“What do you mean? I’m–”
He drops your wrist and groans, twisting on his heel and running his hand through already messy hair before turning back to you. And you don’t understand, because this, right here, is not your boyfriend. This is not how he acts. Rageful? Yes. One edge? Slightly inebriated? Yes and yes. But accusatory? Hot-tempered with you? Not for a single moment in the course of your time together.
“It’s that prick your ma’s tryin’ to set you up with, isn’t it!” he shouts. “I don’t get why she thinks he’s better than me!”
And then suddenly you know. You catch the anger trying to disguise the twinge of pain in his voice. Pain that is stemming from one thing and one thing only—your Mama’s bullshit.
She’s sly, that woman, and when you and Benny went to her house last week for dinner because you were exhausted of her complaints that she never sees you, who did you find in the seat assigned next to yours but her best friend’s son; a marking director in the city who makes an unnecessary amount of money and who expressed interest in you.
She knew you were bringing Benny. She knew because she requested that you bring Benny. You had plans to spare him the agony of an evening with the woman who hates him for his upbringing and unpredictable lifestyle, but when she asked for him, a glimmer of hope sparked. Maybe she was finally letting it go, turning over a new leaf by allowing your relationship to be your and Benny’s business and no one else’s. But you were so wrong.
An hour and a half of verbal jabs at your boyfriend were evened out by the plethora of compliments she had for her top pick as son-in-law. Benny was a trooper for your sake, but once the words ‘you two would make beautiful babies’ left her wrinkling lips, it was obvious the twig of his restraint was about to snap. And frankly, so was yours.
You took Benny by the hand, stormed out of your childhood home to ride back to your real home, and let Benny claim you however he wanted for the remainder of the night while you praised and soothed and reassured him of your feelings. And you thought those actions and words were enough for Benny to understand where your heart lies, but you’d be lying if you said he hasn’t seemed different over the last seven days.
You release a slow breath, “Honey…”
“So he wears a fuckin’ tie! So what!” His arm whips out and the bottle smashes against the wall, shards sprinkling the floor.
“Benny!”
“What!”
“Calm down!”
In two large steps, his body is looming over yours, your upper arms suddenly wrapped in his large hands, squeezing but not enough to hurt. “I know he ain’t like me, but that don't make him better for ya,” he says. “‘Sides, he can’t love ya like I do, so what do ya want him for?”
And that is the last straw because now you’re insulted. You shimmy your body out of his grasp and he glances down at his empty hands with wide eyes, brows knitted, lips parted as if you had simply vanished.
“I am not messing around!” you snap.
“Then where the fuck ya been tonight?” he demands. “Huh? Ya weren’t here. You’re always here. You’ve never not been here at this time’a night, so what am I supposed to be thinkin’?”
Your arms cross over your chest. Your jaw clenches. Your eyes burn. “Sit down.”
“Baby, you tell me right no–”
“Sit down, Benny!”
His head jerks back at the harshness you rarely exhibit, and though he briefly hesitates, he eventually complies, because you won’t use that tone unless he crosses a line and he knows it, and when you do have to use that tone because he has crossed a line, he knows he loses the things he likes. Sex; your homemade blueberry pie; your willingness to ride with him and go to picnics and bonfires with the club—all of it, for however long you decide. Benny doesn’t like to beg, but in those times, you can take him to his knees.
“Do you know how many nights I spend not knowing exactly where you are or when you’re going to be home?” you ask, bending at the waist until you’re at his eye level. “I knew going into this relationship that that's how things were going to be and I wanted you anyway. I understood how important it is for you to maintain your riding with the club, and I’ve always been happy that you have that. But you don’t know where I am once and suddenly I’m cheating on you?”
You straighten your spine and shake your head. “My cousin called. Needed me to watch her kid. I rang the bar but Joe said you guys were out riding.”
Benny’s huffs. His hand runs down his face, then in one final snippy effort, he says, “Well, you could’a left a note.”
Scoffing, you go over to the fridge and point to the piece of paper that in bright red lettering states: ‘Watching Teddy. I’ll be home late. Love you,” followed by your name and a little heart.
“Try again,” you say.
With that, he seems to sober up, both in his inebriation and attitude. As he should. It’s embarrassing to miss the note written in massive letters in an obnoxious color stuck to the fridge where you always leave notes for one another. In fact, you’re embarrassed for him, and you would tell him so were it not for the kicked-puppy look on his face that drains the irritation from yours.
“You love me,” you say.
Benny sighs. “I know.”
“And you can't trust me?”
He leans forward in his seat, elbows perching on knees and hands scrubbing his face as if it might erase the shame of his accusations. “I do, baby, I just…
You return to his side, and planting your hands on his shoulders, you push him back in the chair to take a seat on his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck.
“My mama doesn’t know what’s good for me if she thinks you're not it, but you can’t be treating me like this,” you tell him. “It's not fair. I don’t sit at home thinking you’re messing around on me.”
Benny’s eyes connect to yours as his hand curls at your waist. “I wouldn’t.”
“I know that,” you say. Your palm cups his scruffy cheek. “And you should know I wouldn’t either, so what happened? It’s not like you to be acting like this.”
He takes a second to collect his thoughts, then replies, “I was ridin’ and I missed you so I cut it short, but when I got home I couldn’t find you. And then I started thinkin’ and…” He shakes his head. “Baby, your ma's said shit before but she never shoved another guy in my face. I don’t give a fuck if she hates me, but– ”
“Benny, honey, there’s no way,” you swear to him, running your thumb over the sharp line of his cheekbone. “I mean, he wears a fucking tie.”
Benny’s lips part, eyes flicking back and forth between yours, before he softly chuckles in relief. His head falls forward, forehead resting on your collarbone. Your skin takes the heat of his heavy breaths, and then you feel the press of his lips. They make a gentle trail from your chest, up your neck, over your chin, before planting firmly on your mouth.
“You're mine. You’re it,” you say when the kiss breaks. “No other man but you, Benny Cross.”
Hiiii :) I honestly have no excuse for my lack of updates other than life is really busy rn. But I really hope you guys aren't too frustrated with me and still want to read some Benny x Bunny content. Here's a little scene I wrote when I was in my feels and missing Benny Cross
Benny x Bunny Masterlist
Summary- He never sleeps. Not really. Not the kind of sleep that’s safe, deep, unguarded. But when Benny finally lets go—shirtless, sun-drenched, and halfway out of his jeans—it’s beside you, wrapped in the sound of your voice and the scent of your shampoo.
Word Count- 2.8k
**********
The air had gone syrup-thick, slow like molasses, heavy with the weight of another midwestern summer afternoon.
Sunlight poured in through the trailer window in soft golden ribbons, catching on the dust that floated lazily like snowflakes that had forgotten how to fall. Outside, the cicadas sang their shrill chorus, endless and loud, while the fan in the window gave a weary clatter with each turn, doing its best to stir the heat but failing with quiet dignity.
Benny lay sprawled flat on his back across the tangled sheets, shirtless, sun-kissed skin gleaming faintly with sweat that clung to every sharp line of his torso. One arm was slung over his eyes, his fingers curled loosely like he was trying to disappear beneath the weight of the day—or maybe just into the comfort of the bed itself. His other arm rested by his side, hand limp, calloused fingertips twitching now and then in the sticky heat.
His jeans were halfway undone, the button popped open and the zipper tugged down just enough to hint at the waistband of his boxers. The denim clung low on his hips, creased and faded and worn soft in a way that made your throat tighten. The kind of undone that didn’t look accidental, even if it was. The kind of undone that made him look almost obscene in his beauty, in that unbothered, sleep-heavy sprawl.
He smelled like summer and metal and motor oil - something rough and real and deeply him - but there was still a trace of you on his skin. A faint sweetness clinging to his collarbone, the ghost of your strawberry shampoo from when your head had rested there earlier that morning.
He looked like sin left out in the sun. And he didn’t even know it.
You were sprawled out beside him, stretched on your stomach like a lazy cat, flipping through a sun-wrinkled magazine with a smudged pink lip print on the cover and water stains along the edges. Swimming in one of his old undershirts – white, too big, slipping off one bare shoulder, your legs kicked absently behind you, ankles crossing and uncrossing in the air like you had nowhere to be and no one else to be.
You read aloud in a singsong voice, every word lilting and golden, warm enough to spin the stale air around them into something soft and sweet.
“‘Ten Signs He’s Secretly Thinking About Marriage,’” you announced, clearly delighted by the headline.
Benny didn’t so much as twitch.
“Number one…” you continued, twirling a strand of hair around you finger, “he gazes at you when he thinks you’re not looking.”
You peeked over your shoulder at him with a grin. “You do that.”
From beneath his arm came a low, stubborn grunt. “No, I don’t.”
You smirked and went right on reading. “Number two…he does little chores for you without being asked.”
Another noncommittal grunt from his side.
Smirked, you pointed out, “Like how you always untangle my necklaces. Or how you replaced the lightbulb in the closet after I stubbed my toe and threatened to burn the whole place down.”
Still nothing besides a breathy hum.
“Number three…” you went on, legs swaying lazily behind you, toes brushing the edge of the fan’s breeze. “‘He lets you pick the music.’” You scoffed. “Yeah, right. You act like my records might bite you if you get too close.”
That got a reaction.
Barely, but you saw it.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile. The faintest suggestion of dimples beneath stubble. But his eyes stayed closed, his head tilted slightly to the side, arm still thrown over his forehead like he was shielding himself from the world—or from you
“Number four…” you continued, but the words came slower now. You had to swallow to keep going. “‘He tells you about his childhood.’”
Silence bloomed in the space between you.
The page stopped moving beneath your hand, fingers still. You stared at the print but didn’t see it. Your lips parted, but the next words didn’t come. Because the air had shifted again—grown thick in a different way. Not with heat, but with memory.
Because Benny didn’t talk about his past in the way most people did. He never sat you down and said this happened to me. He never unraveled himself in one clean thread. He gave pieces. Tiny, jagged pieces. Offhand comments dropped like loose change. Things you weren’t supposed to catch – but did.
One night, long after midnight, when the only light in the room was the blue glow of the microwave clock, he’d murmured it while staring at the ceiling: “Used to sleep in the closet when I was little. Figured if they couldn’t see me, they’d forget I was there.”
You didn't know what to say.
Another night, after too much beer and not enough food, he’d added, “Even now? Don’t think I’ve ever slept more than an hour at a time. Not deep. Not like you.”
And then—after you had reached for his hand in the dark and he hadn’t pulled away—he had said the one that gutted you.
“Had a system. Kept my shoes on, just in case I had to run. Slept with a flashlight under the pillow, knife taped to the mattress springs.”
He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Hadn’t blinked. Just kept staring out the window, as if the darkness might look back.
“That’s probably why I don’t sleep much now,” he added with a shrug. “Can’t tell if it’s habit or if my body just thinks rest’ll get me killed.”
You could still hear the way he’d said it. Like it was just a fact. Like it didn’t hollow out your chest to imagine a younger version of him flinching at footsteps in the hall. Holding his breath at the sound of keys in the door.
Your throat tightened.
You stared down at the wrinkled page, the words bleeding together into soft-edged nonsense. The cheap perfume sample tucked into the binding had long since faded, but you could still smell the paper—sun-warmed and dusty, like old laundry and summer heat.
Your fingers stayed still.
And for a while, you didn’t move. Just breathed. Just listened to the fan clink its tired rhythm in the window and the cicadas shrieking outside like they’d never known quiet. Your heart ached in your chest, too full of things you couldn’t say aloud.
Because you’d never known anyone like him. Someone so hard-edged, so bruised and wary, yet capable of such impossible softness when no one else was looking.
You blinked once before turning your head to glance over your shoulder at him.
And the sight of him undid you all over again.
He was asleep. Really asleep.
That same arm still draped over his eyes, but his hand had gone slack. His jaw had loosened, lips parted just slightly, the faintest breath slipping past them. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm, the kind of breathing that only came when a body had let go. Completely. Utterly. Trustingly.
Every inch of bruised skin left bare by the rumpled sheet. Every scar, every freckle, every old burn or faded scrape that hinted at a boy who’d learned to survive before he ever learned to rest. And yet – here he was. Laid out beside you, utterly unguarded, as if you were a shelter he had finally chosen. As if this bed, this hour, this closeness was something sacred.
It was too much.
Too much tenderness to carry. Too much weight behind the silence.
“Safe ain’t a thing I ever learned how to be,” he’d told you, once, voice thick from bourbon and exhaustion. “So when I’m next to you, it don’t feel right. Feels like I’m waitin’ for the catch.”
You turned her face away, back toward the forgotten magazine still open in your lap. But the words had blurred beyond recognition. The page rippled beneath her fingers as you blinked hard.
You swiped at your cheek, brushing the tear which had escaped. But it kept coming. Thick, warm tears that slipped free before you could catch them, running soundlessly down your face and soaking into the collar of his undershirt you still wore. There was no sobbing. No trembling. Just a kind of quiet, overwhelming grief—too big for your ribs to hold and too soft to scream.
Grief for the child he’d been, sleeping in closets with his shoes on. Grief for the man he became, carved out of silence and hard choices. And most of all—for this moment. For the trust he offered now, without words, simply by sleeping beside you like he believed he wouldn’t need to run.
You bit your lip to keep from making a sound. Tried to breathe through the ache—but it broke free as a shudder, small and sharp, curling in your chest.
And that’s when he stirred.
Just a shift at first—a flicker of motion through his body, a twitch of his shoulder. Then he went still. Completely still. Like some instinct inside him had gone taut in the space of a heartbeat.
You heard it before he spoke: the change in his breathing. The subtle hitch. That flicker of awareness clawing its way back to the surface.
Then, his voice—low, rough with sleep, and laced with something that sounded like worry. “Bun?”
You sniffled, barely more than a sound, and wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand like it meant nothing. Like the tears weren’t real if you caught them fast enough.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. But it wasn’t even a lie—it was a hope, said out loud.
Benny blinked, slow and disoriented, still tangled in the haze of sleep. But the moment his eyes landed on you – curled at the edge of the bed, turned away from him, shoulders trembling in that quiet, repressed way that said don’t look at me, please don’t look at me – something in him fractured.
You looked like someone trying to disappear.
And that undid him.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. Just moved.
Slower than instinct. But with more certainty than he’d ever had.
The air kissed his skin, still damp with sleep as he pushed himself up with one elbow. Every muscle in his body ached with the weight of dreams he hadn’t meant to fall into. But none of it mattered.
You were crying. And he’d missed it.
So he crawled – quietly, carefully – to the foot of the bed where you lay, curled like a child hiding from a storm. Each shift of his body made the mattress creak, but you didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at him.
By the time you turned your head fully to look at him, he was there—behind you, beside you, with you—one arm sliding beneath your chest, the other draping across your lower back as he lowered himself over you, curling along the curve of your body like he belonged there. He pressed his chest to your spine, his breath warm at your ear. His jeans were still unbuttoned, slung low on his hips, skin hot from sleep and the sun-drenched bed. You felt every inch of him, solid and real and right there.
“Sweetheart…” It wasn’t even a question, just a gentle plea.
“I’m fine,” you tried again, but it cracked on the way out.
His arm around you tightened. Not in fear. Not in panic. Just in that quiet, desperate way people hold each other when words aren’t enough.
“Tell me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Please. Just tell me what’s breaking you.”
You turned her face into the pillow, as if that might protect you from the truth.
“I don’t know,” you breathed. But then—your voice wavered, and the truth began to rise like floodwater. “You were sleeping. Really sleeping. And you never do that, Benny. You never let go. And I just kept thinking… all those nights you spent afraid to close your eyes. The things you must’ve heard through the walls. The things you didn’t tell me. You were just a boy, and no one came for you. And now you’re here. With me. And you looked so peaceful, like something finally let go inside you. And it just—” Your breath shuddered. “I didn’t know it would hurt to see you safe.”
“Bunny…” His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching another tear. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far. I didn’t think I’d ever find a place where I could close my eyes and not feel like I was being hunted.”
You turned slightly then, just enough for him to see the glint of your tears in the light.
He kissed you – gently. Once. Just below your eye, where the salt clung to your skin.
“That wasn’t sleep,” he said softly. “That was surrender. That was you.”
You let out a trembling laugh that hurt to hear. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I’m not,” he said, pressing a kiss to your other cheek. “You cry, I wake up. That’s the deal.”
Benny buried his nose in your hair, took a breath, and exhaled like the weight of her grief had somehow lessened his own.
You let out a small breath—shaky, wet, but gentling now that he was there. All around you. His weight draped over your back like a blanket, his arm snug across your waist, holding you close in that silent way he always did, like he didn’t trust words half as much as touch.
The tears didn’t stop completely. But they quieted. Softened. Fell slower.
Benny didn’t speak again right away. Just rested his cheek against the back of your head, his chest rising and falling against your spine like a lullaby. His fingers curled into the hem of the oversized shirt you wore—his shirt—and for a moment, the silence swelled full and sacred.
Then, after a pause long enough you thought he might’ve fallen asleep again, you heard his voice. Muffled. Sleep-rough. Almost shy.
“Hey…”
You hummed in response, too tired to speak.
“Weren’t you in the middle of reading me somethin’?” he asked.
You blinked, smile tugging slow at your lips. “You mean the article about how to tell if your boyfriend’s thinking about marriage?”
“Yeah.” He shifted slightly, one leg sliding between yours as he pulled you even closer. “That one.”
You turned your face toward the edge of the mattress, blinking at the sun-wrinkled magazine still splayed open a few inches away, half-tangled in the sheets.
“I thought you said my records bite,” you murmured, teasing gently. “Pretty sure that means you don’t trust my taste.”
He let out a small grunt—almost a laugh—and nuzzled against your hair like he could burrow deeper into you.
“I trust your voice,” he said, voice going quieter. “Don’t care what you’re readin’. Could be the back of a soup can for all I care.”
You smiled again. A real one this time. Small, but glowing.
“You’re lucky,” you said, reaching for the magazine with one hand, still tucked under the weight of his body. “Because this quiz has five more signs, and I know you’re dying to know if you pass.”
“Oh, I’m nervous as hell,” he murmured, voice dripping with fake solemnity, even as his mouth brushed your shoulder. “Lay it on me.”
You adjusted the magazine against the sheets, flipping to the right page, and cleared your throat dramatically.
“Number five,” you read aloud. “‘He talks about the future like you’re already a part of it.’”
Benny was quiet for a second.
Then he murmured, “I think I told you last week that we should plant tomatoes next spring.”
“You did,” you said. “You also said we’d need netting to keep the birds from eating them.”
“Then I’m five for five,” he said, his voice warm and slow and dripping with satisfaction. “Keep goin’. I wanna see if I score perfect.”
You flipped the page, snickering under your breath. “Number six… he picks up on your moods—even the quiet ones.”
His hand squeezed your side, thumb brushing your ribs.
“Next,” he whispered into your skin.
Your smile spread. God, it hurt to love him this much.
“Number seven,” you continued, “he says ‘we’ more than ‘I.’”
Benny shifted, lifting himself just slightly so he could press a kiss to your temple.
“We’re gonna need new sheets if you keep cryin’ on this set,” he said gently. “We’re gonna wear this bed out at this rate.”
You let out a small laugh, sniffled once, and kept reading. The tears were drying now. The ache was still there—but it had been wrapped in something warmer. Something real.
“Keep going,” he mumbled.
So you did.
Even long after he’d fallen asleep, you kept reading. Just in case his dreams were listening.
Summary: Daddy!Benny moments from the birth of his baby to a parenting anxiety episode to a few years down the line with a little toddler.
Notes/Warnings: *Spoiler free* Unofficial Part 3 to Come Back Knockin’ and Come Back Together. I say ‘unofficial’ because it’s more like an epilogue-y time-jump thing and I might go back later and add more fics between the last part and this to bulk up the story (if people are interested. If not I’ll probably just move on to new Benny fics unrelated to this story). Fluffy family cuteness. Girl dad!Benny. Angsty-ish at brief points (if you squint, I suppose). Kissing. Mention of pregnancy. Typos.
Words: 3400
Benny Cross Masterlist
When the nurse escorts him into the delivery room, Benny freezes. Wide blue orbs flick between you and the bundle in your arms, and despite the distance, you can see his hard swallow. You can practically feel his heart thumping, reverberating off the walls, and when his lips part, you’re unsure if it’s from awe or anxiety or a mix of the both.
When it comes to your husband’s emotions over the birth of his child, it has varied by the day. There’s been a steadiness and consistency to his excitement, thankfully, but he has vacillated between trusting in his ability to be a father and questioning what good he can bring to a kid’s life. This last week in particular was the most chaotic for his ups and downs knowing your due date was around the corner.
“Hi Daddy,” you say, hoping your smile will ease any brewing discomfort in his system. Benny doesn’t move, but his gaze has officially decided to glue to the baby. For the moment, you’ll take that as a win. Had you given birth eight months ago, you’re not sure he would have touched his child with a ten-foot pole, let alone looked at them. “Well, are you going to come see her or what?”
Benny snaps out of the shock gripping his body and he blinks. Swallows again. “It’s a girl?” he asks, a mild tremble in his voice.
With your nod, he takes a deep breath, and from the continuation of your encouraging smile, his limbs regain their functioning. It’s a snails-pace twenty steps, but eventually, he makes it to your side.
There’s a twinge of guilt in your gut from feeling relieved while he’s tightly wound with tension, but you can’t help it. Benny is unpredictable until the last second. As much as he’s been reliable during your final months of pregnancy, nipping at your mind was the possibility of a second disappearance. But he didn’t run. He’s here. He came to you. He came for her.
Benny’s knuckles whiten around the railing of your bed as you pull your daughter away from your chest and tilt her forward so he can take in her sleeping face.
“Hold her,” you say, raising your arms toward him. Benny’s eyes widen. He backs up and you sigh, having expected that response. “Benny.”
“I’ll drop her.”
“Yea, because you’re so weak-muscled,” you tease with a playful roll of your eyes. You cradle your baby against your body so you have a free hand to reach out and grab him by the wrist, guiding him back to the edge of the bed.
“Hold your arm out,” you instruct. A beat passes but he does as you say, allowing you to nestle her into the curl of his strong arm. “Cup her head with your other hand. Like that. Good. See? You’re perfect.”
He’s holding her like she’s some sort of rare, expensive bike part that took a year of his life to track down, but his shoulders slowly untighten as he starts to rock her back and forth like the natural you suspected he would be. When she opens her doe eyes to stare up at him, Benny’s brow pinches and tears start falling down your cheeks because his eyes have turned glassy and you’ve never before witnessed the sight. It’s unlikely anyone has.
“So?” you ask. “What do you think?”
Benny nods. “You did so good, baby,” he says, glancing up at you with a grin. He’s quick to return his gaze to his daughter. “You made us a beauty.”
You sniffle. “You contributed to that as well.”
“Yea, but she looks like you.”
It’s possible as she ages that she’ll develop a feature of yours here and there, but when you look at your daughter now, all you see is him. His nose, his eyes, his lips. She’s him, and you’d tell him so, but you’re not sure your words would break through the trance the baby has him in.
—
When you wake, he’s not beside you. The sun is long from rising, and yet there’s no warmth, no lingering scent of his cologne, and when you flip over, the comforter remains smoothly spread out on his side.
You kick the covering off your legs and stand, snatching your silk robe off the closet's doorknob to slip over its matching nightie. You know where he is. It’s where he’s spent many of his nights in the past three weeks.
In the corner of the nursery, perched in the quilted chair, Benny is hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers woven and clenched as he stares at the crib where your daughter lies fast asleep under the low glow of her nightlight.
“Benny…” you start, making your way to him. His stare doesn’t break from the baby as he leans back against the cushion and spreads his legs so you can take your place on his lap. An arm slides across your lower back, a palm plants on your bare thigh, and you cuddle into his chest.
“You didn’t come to bed,” you say.
Benny hums in acknowledgment.
“You’ve got to be at the shop in four hours.” To that, he doesn’t even utter a sound.
It’s not until you say, “Are you ready to tell me what's been going on in that head of yours?” that you get a response.
He exhales heavily, then says, “What if I’m not good enough for her?”
The question doesn’t surprise you. You assumed it was something along those lines, simply from observing his behaviors since you came home from the hospital.
Benny’s smile rivals the sun whenever he takes his daughter in his arms, but the longer he looks at her, the more he thinks, and the more he thinks, the further that smile falls. He cradles his baby and his mind runs away with him. He peers too far into the future, digging up every possible problem and road bump ahead. Problems and road bumps—some of which you have no doubt are outlandish—that may never come to fruition.
Your fingers weave into the blond tips at the nape of his neck and you delicately scrape the base of his skull with your nails.
“That’s crazy. You’re amazing with her,” you tell him.
“She’s only three weeks old,” Benny argues. “There’s plenty of time to fuck it up.”
“Ben–”
You’re cut off by the intensity with which his eyes drill into yours. A raw realness of concern swirls in blue irises. “What if she needs things that I can't afford to get her?”
Your brow raises. “Like what?”
“Anything,” he tells you. “What if she resents me for not havin’ better to offer? Her friends’ pops will have better jobs than me—more money in their pockets. We don’t even have a car to take her places; we’ve been borrowin’ Betty’s, for fuck’s sake. And this neighborhood? Baby, this street isn’t as safe as it used to be.”
You sigh. He’s right. You hate to admit it because you hoped he was worried over sillier matters, but every bit of what he said is fair. Your daughter will have friends whose fathers have established careers and the salaries to match. There will be lawyers and doctors and financiers living in areas that, while vastly nicer, still feed into the same schools your child will attend. You will need a car, ideally within the next few months because Benny can’t be riding to daycare with the baby clipped into the side satchel on the seat of his bike. And yes, the neighborhood has undeniably taken a turn in the past year. You should start planning your lives on a budget so you can get a small place outside the city.
But the difference between you and Benny is that you know all of this is attainable. You know the two of you can do this. You know you’re both good enough and smart enough and resourceful enough to raise your baby.
Benny removes his palm from your thigh and rubs his fingers across his forehead. You put your hands on his cheeks to turn his face back to yours.
“Benny Cross, you are not going to fuck up. Our daughter is not going to resent you,” you say with absolute certainty, adding extra force to your tone. “She needs you and she needs me, and that's it. Everything else we will figure out in time.”
—
Three Years Later
You love to watch them. You love to watch how they exist together. You love how Benny tucks her into bed at night; how he wakes her extra early on Saturdays to make pancakes—one of the few meals he managed to master; how she stares up at him with a trembling bottom lip until he reluctantly agrees to play dollies with her; and how eager she is to take interest in anything and everything he has to show her.
In the beginning, it wiggled your nerves to see her so curious about bikes—what mother wants to imagine her daughter on the back of a motorcycle—but she is her father’s daughter. Trying to shield her from her interests would only make her want to pursue them more, whether you agreed to it or not, so you took a step back and let it happen, knowing Benny would approach it appropriately.
Now, it’s another one of those moments between them that you love to watch—this time watching without their knowledge as you peek through the sliver of space in the barely open door that connects the kitchen to the garage.
The garage door is up to permit some natural lighting, and Benny, ratchet in hand, sits on a section of concrete that is shaded from the prying heat of Summer’s sun. He’s messing with the body of his bike as Lucy stands to his side; close, but not so close that she could be harmed should he accidentally lose his grip on a tool.
“Ok,” he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He offers Lucy the ratchet and says, “Wrench please.”
Lucy carefully takes the tool by the handle—just as Benny taught her—before looking into the open box at her feet. Her head tilts as she examines its contents, and then she leans down, places the ratchet back where it belongs, and wraps her little fingers around the wrench. Pulling it out, she waves it back and forth with great enthusiasm before presenting it to her father.
Benny smiles and she places the tool in his open palm. “Good job, nugget,” he praises as he softly pinches her round cheek. She giggles.
Lucy takes in Benny’s every movement, observing like a tiny apprentice would a master. She’s attentive and nods along with everything he says even though she has no idea what a lick of it means. She does so until Benny finishes the job and closes up the toolbox.
The second both of his hands are free, Lucy vaults herself into her father’s arms with such vigor that she nearly knocks him onto his back.
“Fixed it?” she asks, placing her hands on his shoulders and hoisting herself up so she’s at his eye level.
“Fixed it,” Benny confirms with a nod, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
When you push the door open, their heads whip in your direction. Benny’s face splits to reveal a row of white teeth, and Lucy’s eyes—the same shade as Benny’s—light up, sparkling so stunningly that you almost don’t want to let the next words out of your mouth.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” you say, “but it’s nap time Lady Lu.”
Lucy gasps and looks at Benny to verify that he’s just as shocked. To her great enjoyment, he plays the part.
“Momma’s got us on a schedule,” he tells her.
Her face scrunches in distaste. “Yucky!”
“Yucky?” Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead in mock offense. “Sounds like Daddy is teaching you to rebel against authority,” you say, crossing your arms as you give your husband a pointed look, “which I would really prefer he hold off on for a few years.”
Benny’s faux shock fades to a chuckle. “Alright,” he concedes, setting Lucy on her feet so he can stand. “Momma’s right, nugget.”
He winks at you and you grin as you reach toward him, grabbing his face to draw him in for a quick, thankful kiss. Just as he’s about to go in for a second peck, Lucy tugs on his hand to redirect his attention where she wants it: on her distress.
“But–But you guys don’t have nap time!”
“Oh sure we do,” Benny says as he lifts her into his arms and settles her on his hip. “We nap when you nap.”
She glances at you, and when you nod she mutters an unconfident “Oh.”
Not wanting to insult her feelings, you suck in your laugh. Your daughter despises the thought of missing out on any fun and has decided that it must be when she naps that her parents go wild. Little does she know that you take any opportunity to rest, and if Benny is home, so does he.
It’s been a hardworking three years. Exhausting. Taxing to a degree that your bodies still haven’t fully recovered. Benny spent the majority of his waking hours at the shop while Kathy and Betty offered to watch Lucy so you could get a job as an office assistant; painfully dull work, but not an opportunity you took for granted considering you had no training in the area before you were hired. You both worked as often as you could for as many hours as your employers would allow, so much so that Benny would hold you through the tears you shed worrying if it was subconsciously affecting Lucy. You didn’t want her to know her parents for their absence, but at the end of the day, it was all for her, so you pressed on.
You and Benny found peace and relaxation in the simple things—late-night rides; bonfires with the club; Saturday morning cartoons with Lu—but the rest of the time you were wearing yourselves out, and not always in the pleasurable way.
But it was worth it. Every headache from lack of sleep, every aching joint from your constant desk sitting and Benny’s physical labor, every emotional outburst that the two of you would coax one another out of—worth it.
Six months in, you got that car you needed. By a year, Benny had bought into the shop for fifty percent. And at the end of two years, you found a house just outside the city—a modest three-bedroom with a yard and a garage.
“Are you sleepy now?” Lucy asks, her voice already beginning to lose the oomph of its energy.
You softly snicker. Your daughter always hits her marks. Like clockwork, about two minutes post-nap-time announcement, regardless of whether or not she fights you on it, her eyelids struggle to open after each blink and her words leave her mouth at a more sluggish pace.
“Very,” you nod again. “But we certainly won't nap if you won't. We wouldn’t want to miss out on any fun with you.” The tip of your index finger taps her tiny nose.
“N-No, I'll do it,” she says, “if you guys are tired too.”
“We are, nugget,” Benny tells her. “So let's get you to bed, sound good?”
She’s fading fast but she uses some of that remaining energy to give a little grin before laying her head on her father’s shoulder and releasing a yawn. “Yea, Daddy.”
—
“Well, that took all of fifteen seconds,” you say as Benny gently closes Lucy’s bedroom door behind him.
You start heading for your room with your husband trailing after you, but then there’s a tight grip on your waist and you’re spun to face in the opposite direction. Fumbling your steps, your chest bumps against Benny’s before he bends down, wraps a thick arm around your thighs, and tosses you over his shoulder.
When you yelp, you’re punished with a swat on the ass. “Hush, baby. You wake Lu and we don’t get our nap, and after workin’ on the bike all mornin’, I could really use one.”
He carries you to your bedroom, sets you on the edge of the bed, and throws himself onto his back atop the mattress. Then, arms spread wide, smirk across his face, he says, “C’mere,” and you crawl into your usual space against his body. After a synced sigh, Benny crooks his knuckle under your chin and tips your head back so he can seal his lips to yours.
You’ll never tire of this. Of him. The feel of him around you. The taste of him. The scent of cologne and motor oil. The way he nips at your bottom lip to pull a muffled squeak from your throat and how he smiles into the kiss at his achievement. It’s too damn good and nothing could match it.
Knowing how your future would have evolved if Benny hadn’t returned after learning of your pregnancy is impossible. Maybe you would have found happiness if you had moved on and met another man, but you wholeheartedly believe that that man, whoever he might have been, wouldn’t have had the capacity to be what you need. When Benny stepped into your world, he took the mold—your ideal image of the love of your life—and stretched it out to fit him perfectly, and then he immediately broke it so no man could so much as attempt to take his place. And it worked. There was never going to be anyone else for you. At least, not anyone who could give you what you have now.
As Benny’s fingertips graze over your cheek and bury into your hair, he shifts his weight, rolling you onto your back. Lips press harder into yours and then they disappear. Your eyes snap open, a pout rapidly forming that he quickly kisses away.
“Wanna talk to you about somethin’,” Benny says lowly, whisper-like as his nose nudges yours. You do your best to straighten out your thoughts and pay attention, but it’s made difficult by the comforting weight of his body bleeding into yours and his thumb brushing back and forth along your cheekbone. “You know, Johnny and Betty said they’d watch Lu tonight if we want.”
With narrowing eyes, you reply “Yes,” drawing out the word, wondering where he’s going with this and why it has to interrupt the kissing.
“If you wanna take ‘em up on that, I was thinkin’ we could go for a ride, and then—” he shrugs the shoulder not supporting his weight above you, “I don’t know, maybe we come home and make another kid.”
Your eyes shift from mildly irritated slits to round saucers. “What?”
“Yea,” he says. “Thought it might be nice.”
“Seriously?”
“I mean, if you’re willin’ to birth another one, I’d be happy to put one in you.”
A laugh bubbles from your chest. “Would you now?”
Benny nods, planting a kiss on your mouth. That kiss moves to your cheek, then his lips ghost along your jawline before landing on the sensitive spot just under your ear. “You just gotta say yes, baby,” he says, warm breath heating your skin, “and nine months from tonight, we could have our second one.”
Your fingers glide through his hair, fisting the strands as you angle your head to give him better access to your neck. He licks and sucks until you moan, and then you say, “You’re that confident you can get me pregnant on the first shot?”
Benny pulls his head back to look at you. “Course I am. When I did it last time, I wasn’t even tryin’,” he says, cocky grin in place. But then his features soften. “So? What do you think?”
Your lips quirk to the side and you hum. “Alright, Benny Cross,” you say. “Let’s make another baby.”
---
A/N: I keep writing scenes with mothers eavesdropping on father/child bonding moments 🫣
Synopsis: After a mission filled with close calls and bad decisions, the team comes home to find an even bigger threat waiting at the door—your wrath.
Warning(s): THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS!!! platonic!thunderbolts x reader. no use of y/n. use of the nicknames doll, honey, and pretty girl. canon typical violence. descriptions of injuries. descriptions of explosion, gun use, etc. established relationship. profanities. kissing. VERY suggestive content (minors be advised). talks of having a baby. bucky being a little feral (very briefly). slightly hurt/comfort. basically bucky and reader being the parents of the group.
Word Count: 3.6k-ish
Author's Note: GUYS I saw this fanart on instagram and instantly knew that I had to write something inspired by it!!! I've been itching to post a thunderbolts fic since last week 😭 welcome back 2012-2014 era of avengers' tower fanfics ✨️ anyway I hope they're keeping the revolution hair for bucky in doomsday or else I swear I'm gonna RIOT!!! (I know seb's head is shaved rn but wigs exist yk 😔) don't forget to comment, like, and reblog loveliesss 🩷
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.
Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.
Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.
Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.
Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.
Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing.
But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.
The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it.
No heads-up. No plan.
Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons.
By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.
From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”
“What?!” Alexei roars.
Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”
“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.
Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”
“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”
“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”
“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”
John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.
Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”
The elevator dings again at the top floor.
“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”
“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”
“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.
Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”
“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.
“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”
The group swelters in a momentary silence.
“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”
Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”
The whole team stops in their tracks.
One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.
On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright lilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.
It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.
“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.
“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”
“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.
“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”
Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”
“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you—all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”
Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.
“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”
There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.
When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”.
Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better.
You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.
“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”
“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.
Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.
“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.
“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”
“Walker.”
It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.
And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.
The blond gulps.
“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”
“That's not necessa—”
The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.
Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.
“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”
As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.
“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”
“Wait, hold on—”
“That's not—”
“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”
The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.
“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.
Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.
“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”
“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”
Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.
Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace.
“Hey, doll. I've missed—”
“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”
Bucky blinks.
He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.
“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”
“No.”
The chopping continues.
Bucky rubs his face.
“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”
“Hm.”
Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.
“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”
You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”
“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”
Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.
“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”
Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.
“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”
Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.
“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”
Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”
You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”
He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”
“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”
“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”
A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.
“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”
Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”
“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”
You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.
Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”
“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”
Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”
“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”
“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”
The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.
“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”
Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.
“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”
You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss.
“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”
“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”
“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”
Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—
“Yelena! Give it back to me!”
“I told you it wasn't me!”
Bucky groans.
The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.
“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.
You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.
“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”
He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen's doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.
“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.
“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.
“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”
“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”
“Fucking asshole—”
“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”
Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.
There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.
But with you by his side, and his entire team watching his six, he knows that he's got nothing to worry about.
He’s a problem. A walking, talking... paradox of sharp edges and soft hands—except the soft is reserved for her and her alone. To the rest of the world, he’s all business: measured words, steady hands, a gaze that doesn’t waver. But the moment she walks into the room? His composure unravels, just a little. Enough for his fingers to twitch, for his breath to catch, for something unbearably fond to settle behind his eyes.
It’s... pathetic, really. He knows it. She could ask him for the world, and he’d set it at her feet without a second thought. Hell, she could ask him to kneel, and he’d do it. Not because she wants power over him—no, she doesn’t even realize what she does to him—but because she’s her. His undoing. His salvation. The only thing that makes this whole godforsaken life worth it.
He watches her across the room, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way she bites her lip in concentration, completely unaware of the fact that he’s starving for her. It’s not just want. It’s not even need. It’s something deeper, something that’s settled into his bones and taken root in his bloodstream.
She turns, catches him staring. Raises an eyebrow, amused.
“You good?”
Not even close. But he smirks, tugs at the knot of his tie like it’s strangling him. “Yeah, sweetheart. Just thinking.”
Thinking about how he’s never letting her go. About how she could walk him straight off the edge of the world, and he’d follow without hesitation. About how he’s already ruined for anyone else, because she’s it. The only light in his life, the only thing that makes him human.
And God help him, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
